The quiet morning came gently, wrapped in soft light and birdsong.

  But something was wrong.

  Imogen sat up in bed, her blankets tangled around her legs. It wasn’t the light that woke her, or the sound of Elanor bustling around the kitchen like she always did… it was the absence of it.

  No creaking floorboards.

  No kettle whistling.

  No scent of brewing tea or simmering stew.

  Just… silence.

  Her brows knit as she pushed the covers back and stepped onto the cool wooden floor. The house felt still. Too still.

  She slipped on her slippers and padded quietly down the stairs, expecting Elanor to be crouched by the hearth or grumbling about the firewood pile again.

  But the kitchen was empty.

  The stove was cold. No water was boiling. The little tin canister of pain tea sat untouched on the shelf, its lid still askew from the day before. A scattering of dried herbs remained on the counter, left as if Elanor had simply walked away mid-preparation.

  “Aunt Elanor?” Imogen called gently, her voice sounding oddly loud in the quiet.

  No response.

  Imogen’s unease grew as she checked the back door, still latched from the inside. No muddy footprints. No note on the table. No sign of breakfast left behind like she might've just gone to the garden.

  Then she noticed the window.

  It was open.

  A faint trail of soot, dark, almost like ash clinging to the windowsill, as if something had passed through during the night. Something that hadn’t belonged.

  Her pulse jumped.

  “Aunt Elanor…?” she called again, quieter now, the sound barely carrying past the walls.

  She moved toward the hallway, her fingers brushing the edge of the doorframe as she turned. The wooden floor creaked beneath her feet as she padded toward the small workroom at the back of the house, the one Elanor used only for serious things. Letters. Warding mixes. Secrets.

  The door was slightly ajar.

  The scent hit her first, burned herbs, bitter wax, and something metallic beneath it.

  She pushed the door open slowly, the hinges groaning.

  And froze.

  For a moment, her mind refused to register what she was seeing.

  Elanor. Hanging from one of the ceiling beams, the broken ring symbol carved into the wall behind her, fresh and red. Her skirts swayed gently, like she had only just stopped moving.

  Imogen stared, her breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a scream. Her head shook in sharp, helpless denial.

  Then her body moved.

  “Aunt Elanor!” she shrieked, voice cracking as she lurched into the room. “AUNT ELANOR!!!!!!”

  She stumbled forward, fumbling for the small iron-handled dagger she always kept at her belt, meant for roots and thorns, not rope and horror.

  Her fingers trembled as she sliced through the rope, biting back sobs. Elanor’s body dropped heavily into her arms, and Imogen crumpled beneath the weight of it, trying to lower her gently, trying to undo the impossible.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  “Come on… come on, please… no, no, no… ” Her voice broke completely, raw and panicked as she cradled Elanor’s head in her lap. Her skin was cold.

  Too cold.

  Imogen pressed her hands to her aunt’s chest, willing that flicker of gold to return, to do something. But nothing came. Not even a spark.

  She screamed again.

  Not a scream of fear this time.

  A scream of heartbreak.

  A scream that rattled the windowpanes.

  It echoed through the room like thunder, unanswered.

  Then, through her tears, Imogen looked around, and the pieces didn’t fit.

  The desk was a mess. Papers scattered, drawers yanked open like someone had been searching in a hurry, or in a rage. Ink had been spilled across half-finished letters, some pages torn and wrinkled, others stained with what looked like ash.

  This wasn’t the room of someone who planned a peaceful death.

  This was the wreckage of someone who had fought to stop it.

  Imogen stared down at her aunt’s face, her vision blurring again.

  The quiet was suffocating. Heavy.

  A sharp knock shattered it, snapping through the silence like a slap.

  She jerked her head up, heart still pounding, her hands slick with sweat and ink from where she’d clutched Elanor’s cooling form.

  The knock came again, louder this time. Followed by a familiar voice.

  “Im? Are you there?”

  Aiden.

  She froze. Her mouth opened, then closed. She looked down at Elanor, limp in her lap, the overturned chair beside her, the mess of the desk, the broken thread of their quiet life.

  She swallowed the rising scream and gently laid Elanor down on the rug, brushing a shaking hand over her aunt’s hair one last time.

  Then she staggered to her feet.

  She opened the door.

  Aiden stood there, arms crossed, brows raised in concern. “Hey. I saw your window open and figured I’d stop by… ”

  His voice cut off as he took in her appearance. The disheveled hair. The trembling. The look in her eyes.

  “…Imogen? Are you alright?”

  She couldn’t hold it in.

  “It’s Elanor,” she choked. “She’s dead. She… she was hanged in her room. But it wasn’t right, Aiden. The desk… someone went through it. It was a mess, like someone was looking for something. She wouldn’t… she wouldn’t have done this!”

  Aiden’s expression faltered, then hardened. He stepped past her into the house.

  “Where is she?”

  Imogen didn’t stop him. She followed numbly as he moved down the hall, into the workroom. She heard his breath catch briefly, shocked.

  Then silence.

  When he returned, his face was unreadable. He rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the floor. “I’m sorry, Im… ”

  She gripped his arm. “You saw the mess. The rope was tied like someone knew what they were doing. She would’ve left a note, she always leaves a note! Something’s wrong. I know it.”

  But Aiden’s gaze shifted away from her, toward the open window, the scattered papers.

  “Imogen,” he said, too slowly. “You need to take a breath. I know this is hard. But she was old. She wasn’t well.”

  “That doesn’t mean she’d… ”

  “You saw her,” he interrupted. “She clearly… hung herself. It’s tragic, but it happens. You’re grieving and trying to make sense of it, but you need to stop talking like this. It’s… ” He hesitated, then said it anyway. “You sound like a crazy person.”

  Imogen recoiled like he’d struck her.

  “I’m not crazy,” she whispered.

  Aiden stepped forward, trying to soften. “I didn’t mean it like that. But sometimes grief twists things. You’re not thinking clearly, and people might get the wrong idea if you keep saying things like… murder.”

  She stared at him, her gut screaming.

  “Do you think someone did this?” she asked softly.

  He didn’t answer, not directly.

  Instead, he pulled her into a one-armed hug, more out of habit than comfort.

  “You should get dressed,” he said quietly. “I’ll go get the guards. They’ll handle it.”

  But Imogen’s eyes stayed locked on the hallway behind him, in the silence where her aunt’s voice should’ve been.

  And in her chest, something cold and strange curled tighter.

  Imogen nodded numbly to Aiden that day, but the moment he left, the silence returned, and never really lifted.